The Mortal Coil, Unwound
by Zauber
Summary: AU: After the battle of hogwarts, Voldemort has been defeated, but with even more death and destruction than in canon. In other words, Harry is the only survivor. Expect lots of dark humor, twisted morals, and a much, much, smarter Harry, as he travels back in time to redo his Hogwarts years.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am not J. K. Rowling. Or... _**Am I?**_

**Chapter 1: ****Moral Turpitude**

Harry Potter looked around him, and asing-song line from an old ryhme swam through his head. _Corpses, corpses, everywhere, and not a drop to drink..._

Staring at the field of death, the bodies of his friends, his enemies, everyone he had ever known, Harry felt a strange sensation building within him. At first, he thought he might have been poisoned, or maybe one of those final blows had done more damage than he thought. Then, he realized what it was. Slowly, so slowly growing, that strange force bubbled up from his stomach and out of his throat.

And Harry Potter began to laugh.

_They all died... everyone, who ever wanted to live, is dead. And I, who only sought to die, live. God, irony's a bitch. _The laughter died in his mouth, and Harry stared at the field of corpses, his eyes blank to the horror around him. A thought had occured to him. With so many dead, their still-warm blood soaking into the cool earth, a tremendous amount of magicla energy had been released. _It would be... rather a shame_, he thought, _ if I were to let it go to waste_.

With a nervous twitch, Harry wondered if that was something that voldemort might have thought. Did he, too, see a field of bodies as a resource? See blood as power, death to bring life? _Maybe. But I can do better than him!_

Striding quickly into Hogwarts, Harry rapidly ascended to the headmasters office, now open and undefended with the destruction of the Hogwarts wards. Stepping directly across to the bookshelf, he pulled down a weighty tome. "_Anecdotes of the Great Accountants"_, Harry read. _You always were one to appreciate a joke. Lives tallied and weighed, time lost for time gained..._ Harry smiled grimly, and made his way back to the battlefield.

He had come across the book quite by accident, during one of the many occasions he had been left alone in the office to wait until Dumbledore was available to talk to him. Now, that lucky accident would stand him – and perhaps the world – in good stead.

He opened the book, and quickly found his way to one particular section. It was carefully encoded, the true text scribed in parselmouth across the face of the page, looking as if someone had carelessly dropped a bottle of ink there at some time in the past. Only one 'touched by the serpent' could read it. Luckily for Harry, he was – or rather, had played the unwilling host, to one who was.

The spell itself was simple. All it required, was a field soaked in blood, a full moon in the sky, and a truly insane degree of desperation. _And we certainly have that, don't we Harry? We certainly do, other Harry, we certainly do._

oOoOoOo

Harry woke up. He looked around. _Where am I?_ he thought. Then he looked down. _It worked!_

Harry potter, aged ten years and seven months, stood up and opened the door of his cupboard. After all those years of torment, and then the months spent hunting down horcruxes – studying the dark arts every waking moment, searching for a way to destroy them – he finally had a chance to do it all again. _And it was going to be **FUN!**_

...

The cool, still light of the blazing moon shone through the windows, alighting like the finger of death upon a small boy creeping up the stairs. Harry was almost shivering with excitement, but forced himself not to make so much as a whisper of sound, not a peep, not a word. Slowly, oh so achingly slowly, he crept across the landing, and laid his palm against the door.

For eleven long years, they had tormented him. Eleven years of pain, of suffering, of deprivation. Harry felt his lips stretch into a vicious grin as he pushed the door slowly open. There, lying on the bed in front of him, was that enormous blob of blubber known mockingly as "Uncle" Vernon.

Raising his hands, Harry called forth his magic. When the voldemort-supporting ministry was trying to track his wand, he had forced himself to learn to cast without it. It was naturally much, much harder to do, but he could do it. And he did.

_"Muffliato"_, Harry cast, and felt the faint tightening across his skin that indicated the sound barrier was in place. Now, nothing that happened within this room would be heard outside it. _After all,_ w_hat happens in hell, stays in hell!_ Harry chuckled to himself. Then he decided that would be an appropriate alarm for the dursleys to wake to – but he needed to cast a few spells, first.

_"Petrificus Totalus"_

_..._

_"Incarnus Mortis"_

_..._

_"Locomotor Leviosa"_

_..._

_"Frigido Lavatus"_

And Harry was hovering, several feet of the ground at the foot of the bed. Cloaked in shadow, his eyes burned with all the seeming of a demon's, while the air was filled with the chill of the grave.

Vernon Dursley awoke sluggishly, and found himself staring at a tendril of frost that crept along the ceiling, as his breath steamed in the air above his head. With a shock, the man realized he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. All he could do, was stare, his eyes flashing wildly around the room, struggling to make out whatever he could.

"Ah, can the pwetty widdle pudgy pwick not see?"

Vernon started; He recognized that voice! _But how?_

With a sudden nauseating jerk, Vernon and Petunia found their bodies bending, until they were sitting upright, fixed rigidly in place. Staring at the demon – the devil – that had haunted their dreams, whose dark laughter rang with magic through their nightmares, and now their waking life.

The shadows twisting and writhing about him like serpents, the young Harry Potter floated slowly forward until he was face to face with them, mere inches away. The chill floated with him, preceded him, surrounded him. Flickering shadows bent the brightly shining moonlight into an eerie glow, while the cool pall of death traced eldritch runes in silver ice, burning with glacial light through the radiant darkness.

_"I have come into my power",_ Harry whispered sibilantly, trailing off into a poisonous hiss that hung in the air like the sword of damocles. Vernon felt the bed grow damp beneath him, as he stared into the cold green eyes of the demon. He had hoped this day would never come, dared to dream he could destroy the boys potential. Now it was too late. The icon of a terror he had long denied, had prayed that he would never face, hung before him.

"And now", the boy said, his grin growing wider, "I shall have my revenge." It was said flatly, but there was a joy in the child's gaze that shook Vernon to his very core. "_Ilius Cordae Lacero"_, the boy whispered, a bright blade flashed, and a fine trickle of blood flowed down, to join the puddle on the bed.

In an unremarkable little room, in an unremarkable little house, on an unremarkable little street, a man began to scream.

The screaming lasted for a long, long time.

But his pain lasted even longer.

oOoOoOo

The sun was already high in the sky when Dudley Dursley awoke that morning. He was expecting a normal saturday, much like any other. He pulled himself out of bed, had his usual lengthy shower, and then thundered down to breakfast like an overweight little elephant, only to stop short.

Harry Potter was sitting at the table.

Vernon and Petunia were not.

"Mum? Dad? Why's the _freak_ sitting at the table?" Dudley wailed, turning slowly around, as if to catch them hiding behind something.

Harry snorted to himself. _What would they be hiding behind, the lamp? Vernon barely fits through the door as it is! Hehehe, "was", now._ Harry thought with a smile.

"I'll give you a hint." Harry said kindly, before gesturing upwards.

Dudley glanced upwards, and then stopped, transfixed, staring at the dull red stain that had spread across the roof. With a dull _plink_, a drop of crimson fell from the ceiling, to splash on the table where several others had already fallen.

Dudley stared across the table, his face contorting into a rictus of growing horror. _He might not be the smartest pig in the sty,_ Harry thought, _ but he does love his horror flicks._

Harry met his gaze calmly, waiting. Dudley broke first; turning, he fled up the stairs, stopping in front of his parents bedroom.

"I never would have guessed they had so much blood in them. Well, Vernon maybe, but Petunia? Who'd 'ave thunk it?" Harry said lightly. Dudley turned, his hand still on the doorknob, to stare at Harry, who was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. "Do you really want to see?" Harry asked, his tone one of polite interest.

"Wh-What are you going to do to me?" Dudley stuttered. Harry noticed a yellow stain slowly making its way down his trousers, and thought _I guess it runs in the family_. But all he said was, "You can open that door if you really want to, but I think it's time that you took a vacation. You know, you look like you could use one, dudders."

Dudley nodded slowly. "Where do I go?"

Harry shrugged. "Wherever. See if I care. Just go."

Dudley made his way heavily down the stairs, crushing himself into the wall to avoid brushing Harry as he went by. Harry smiled bitterly at the show of fear. _About time._ As Dudley walked to the front door, Harry could hear his breath coming faster, practically see the fear streaming off of him. _Maybe I should do something else?_ Harry thought, _Nah, he's just a kid. I'll let him off easy._

_"Diffindo"._

With a sweep of his hand and a whispered word, Harry sent a powerful cutting charm at Dudley's exposed neck, and smiled grimly to see his head bounce on the doorstep. _Oh, so close, and yet so far. You almost made it, little dudders._

Today was going to be a good day, Harry could feel it. Still, now was the time to plan, and the first thing he would need to do was to deal with Albus-bloody-Dumbledore. _Hmm, what to do, what to do_. First things first, he needed gold, a wand, and most importantly of all, not to be blamed for the Dursleys death. Well, that last one would be easy enough. Humming merrily, Harry lit a fire in the grate, flipped the stove gas on full, and darted out the back door to enjoy the show.

Four hours later, and Harry was still waiting, bored. Somehow, he had never really got the hang of making things go boom. _That was more Fred and George's department_, he remembered, and the thought brought a bitter smile to his face. His last memory of the twins, was of their battered corpses, desecrated by his magic to propel himself back in time. _Your sacrifice was not in vain!_ Harry swore, _I won't let you die a second time._

Then the house blew up.

oOoOoOo

Dumbledore had been having a leisurely late afternoon tea with his very good friend Minerva McGonagall, whom he had _very nearly_ convinced to do all of his paperwork for him again that year, when his fire burst into roaring green life. For a wizard, this was not all that unusual. The sudden appearance in the midst of the flames of a screaming woman's head, was a little more so, but still not all that unusual. But it was what the woman said, that had Dumbledore leaping from his chair.

"Headmaster, you have to come quick! Harry Potter was attacked!"

Jumping instantly to his feet, the spindly wizard thrust a fist into the air and called loudly "Fawkes, to me! Up up and away, to the Dursley home!" With a burst of flame, the old man was gone, leaving his deputy to follow more sedately, by rushing through the fireplace to appear almost instantly in another grate, on the other side of the building.

oOoOoOo

_Thirty-nine bottles of beer on the wall, you take one down... good grief, when are they going to get here?_ Harry potter sighed to himself, still lying curled up in the ruins of his relatives house. _Bored now, bored-bored boredy-bore-bore-bored. Sigh. Thirty-eight bottles of beer on the wall..._

With a sudden flash, an old man with a long white beard dressed in a truly eye-catching shade of brilliant purple appeared, with a bird of fire on his hand, on the sidewalk in front of the ruined building. Not a moment too soon, either, as the distant ring of sirens was drawing steadily closer. Spotting the huddled form of a small boy half covered in rubble, Dumbledore immediately grabbed him and had Fawkes carry them through the flame to the Hogwarts infirmary.

There he handed Harry over to the waiting arms of Poppy Pomfrey, who had been alerted moments ago by McGonagall that something disastrous had happened.

"I was there too late", the headmaster said, looking most grave, "to save anyone but the boy. How is he?"

Entirely focussed on her small charge, Pomfrey began running a variety of diagnostic spells, before settling back, surprised. "Well, apart from being malnourished and, it would appear, badly beaten, he seems to have suffered very little harm."

"Can you tell us what happened, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gently.

Harry nodded. "I-I was in the kitchen, making lunch, and, I was just about to put the casserole in the oven when there was a shadow outside the window. I glanced up, and there was this big, red, something, coming towards me. Then I heard a boom, and suddenly I was on the other side of the room, and there was this glittering blue light all around me, then then fire, and then... I don't really remember. What happened?"

Pomfrey nodded. "Accidental magic, no doubt about it. Look at the poor boy, his core is half drained. Poor chap. Well, at least I can heal these all up – he won't have a mark left on him. Well, except for... you know."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, and turned back to Harry. He had just just opened his mouth to speak, when Harry suddenly stiffened. His face going slack and blank, his words belled forth as if they would shake the very air.

**"The marked shall find solace in ill-omened age when the son of stars resumes his place. That which was born of light yet touched by dark shall by dark become light be guarded. The marked shall find solace in ill-omened age..."**

McGonagall gasped, grasping the headmasters shoulder in shock "A prophecy! Dumbledore, you know what this means..."

Harry looked up at them in bewilderment. "What? I'm sorry, did you say something? I'm afraid I drifted off there for a moment."

Dumbledore smiled at him. "No need to worry Harry, everything will be just fine. We'll leave you to your rest now." and immediately bustled off with the two women.

Lying in his bed in the medicine wing, Harry smiled happily to himself. _The old fool bought it! Hook, line, and sinker. Ah, this really has been a wonderful day. The perfect start, to a new life._

And so, Harry potter, the boy-who-lived (and now the boy-who-lived-twice), drifted happily to sleep, dreaming of things to come.

**A/N:** The inspiration for this story came from Harry Potter and the Bonds of Time. I was reading that, and wincing at all the incredibly stupid and naive stuff harry was doing, when I started imagining what harry would do if he actually had a brain. The cynical psychopath bit came later, just because I thought it would be funnier.


End file.
